“Yes, sir,” Ted replied, and wondered what was coming.
“You distinguished yourself at Aurungpore, I understand?”
“I was at Aurungpore, sir.”
The general regarded him curiously for a moment before he resumed.
“Major Munro, who commanded your late regiment after the disablement of the colonel, has recommended you for the Victoria Cross. I have looked into the matter carefully, and cordially approve the recommendation, so there is little doubt that you will obtain the decoration. I congratulate you, Ensign Russell; you acted as an English lad should.”
Sir Archdale Wilson shook hands, and at the same time a man rose painfully from his chair by the general’s side—a man lame and feeble, worn out by disease; a man who should have been in hospital, had not his spirit been stronger than his body. He grasped the boy’s hand, and cordially exclaimed, “Well done, youngster! well done!”
That man was Colonel Baird Smith, the great engineer, the man in whose hands General Wilson had left all the operations for the capture of Delhi; the man who was even now forming his great plan and scheming his wonderful works for the assault.
Ted left the tent, walking as if in a dream, hardly knowing whether he stood on his head or his feet. The V.C.! He, Ted Russell, to have the V.C.!
He hurried back to consult with Alec, and it seemed as though every man, horse or foot, officer, private, or humble bhisti, was looking at him and discussing his good fortune. He started and came to himself as Claude Boldre touched him on the shoulder.
“How do you do, Mr. Russell?” he said. “If you are going up towards the Gurkha picket I should like to go with you. Alec Paterson used to be a great chum of mine at school. Oh! allow me to introduce you to Lieutenant Roberts of the Bengal Artillery.”